


Man on Fire

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, One Shot, angsty-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But there are <i>reams</i> of reasons that are precursor to his rounding on a rapidly unravelling Sherlock Holmes (deducing causes him to spiral off in a very manic way that sets John’s teeth on edge) in order to press their mouths together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man on Fire

He is utterly terrified.

A powder keg of pent up emotion. 

His pulse is thick and heady and too, too, far too fast. There’s the familiar prickle of fear at the base of his spine and a similar sensation on his skin as beads of sweat fight their way through the pores at his hairline.

This sensation is entirely removed from the fear he knows of the battlefield, it’s not akin to the harbinger of death lingering around your tent. There is no imminent instinct to flee or protect oneself. It is, instead, the sort of fear that leaves one absolutely paralyzed. Mind blank.

It is the sort of fear that makes a moment seem as though it is stretching lifetimes over. Feet firmly rooted to the spot and shoulder-width apart he is ramrod straight-spined. His fingers are curled into his palm, desperate, squeezing fists. John Watson has the overwhelming urge to sink his teeth into his bottom lip and draw blood, feel some sort of alternate pain to what this fear is digging into his lungs, his heart.

The knowledge resides in the lowest cockles of his heart, the pit of his stomach, the muscles around his wrists and the lines around his eyes. It threatens to seep from his pores, tear itself out of his chest; he must tell it before he buckles beneath the weight of it, before it drowns him, before he suffocates with the knowledge.

John Watson would like to say that there is little reason behind it.

But there are _reams_ of reasons that are precursor to his rounding on a rapidly unraveling Sherlock Holmes (deducing causes him to spiral off in a very manic way that sets John’s teeth on edge) in order to press their mouths together.

He’s been thinking about this too much. At first he’d thought it had been a seed implanted by bloggers leaving their speculative comments, by a brilliant dominatrix, by the man who had given him the keys to their room in Baskerville. Even before then if he were being honest with himself (and John Watson is an honest man, to a fault some might say.) 

Of _course_ he’d been attracted to men before. Of _course_ he’d kissed other men before, desired them, wrapped his hand around their- no, but he wasn’t gay, not per se. Not entirely. Bisexual properly, most likely, though he’d never given into that particular moniker. Not actually. He’d never been in a relationship with a man, had never _dated_ a man, had never considered his idea of “forever” to include a man.

Then again, he hadn’t really considered being medically discharged from the RAMC, blogging for his bread or that he would be tearing around with a genius madman into his “forever” plan either, so sod all of that, really. 

And why is he thinking of this now? As he sucks against Sherlock’s bottom lip and desperately wants to feel along Sherlock’s waist, curl in and _stay_ there. 

John’s hand is steady around the other man’s neck and his mind is racing at the speed of light (he almost wants to break apart and ask Sherlock what exactly the speed of light is and then he remembers that Sherlock doesn’t understand the solar system and perhaps they could both be blissfully ignorant of some facts?) and Sherlock is still a bit rigid beneath him.

 _What in the hell am I doing?_ is another stark thought that he has and he shifts his lips, slants them differently and pulls Sherlock’s top lip between both of his and is quite astonished to find that he doesn’t give a _fuck_ what he’s doing.

Because it’s _spectacular_. Truly.

And that he’s possibly feeling his heart burst within his chest. Bright and hot and Sherlock’s hand moves to gently curl against his right hipbone. Gloved hand digging into canvas jacket and John responds in kind, weathered, callused palm against ludicrously expensive wool. 

Sherlock is sweat damp and smells of fresh grass and the familiar scent of clean dirt; he smells like London and something John can only actually think of as Baker Street. And John can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him (of course the man would need to catalogue even _this_ ) and so John peeks open his eyes too and gives him a very stern glare and Sherlock’s eyes slip closed.

As they do, he buckles a little, because he is suddenly pliant and lovely and giving, completely unlike John would have ever thought he would be. The mouth beneath his opens and John finds it rather easy to slip his tongue in and slide against Sherlock’s, rather easy indeed. Oh, it’s magnificent, hot and unforgiving and somehow Sherlock _tastes_ sharp and brilliant against him. The kiss turns lazy and slow and John breathes a sigh through his nose, puffs against Sherlock’s skin.

He feels the upward curl of Sherlock’s lips and something warm and delicate unfurls in John’s chest and he smiles too, a bounding crescendo of _wanting_ and _having_. There’s a bit of need in there too, the way Sherlock’s fingers _dig_ in and hold and John presses back, up on his toes ensuring that they’re held together and hard.

They are miles and miles and miles away from London and perhaps it’s that no one here knows them but John doesn’t feel the least worried that someone will recognize the consulting detective and his blogger having their first kiss in the back gardens of the Cross Keys. 

And oh, oh, this is the most natural thing in the _world_. John could earn medals in this, he thinks, kissing Sherlock Holmes. Everyone he has kissed prior to this pale; he can’t remember names or faces or anything, _anything_. All of the lovely ladies with their whispered pleas and the young men who had said nothing and pressed onward, all anonymous now, in comparison to this.

Sherlock shivers and stutters and dips his head, forehead to John’s as he heaves in a few unsteady breaths and steps back.

The detective looks dazed. (And debauched, but John tries very hard not to think about that.)

And John Watson is utterly terrified. Really, truly rooted to the spot. Feels as though all of the breath is gone from his lungs, dizzy with fear. Oh, he feels light and lovely and warm and so scared. 

Was it foolish for him to kiss the man? Well, perhaps, but he’d really _wanted_ to. And to be fair, Sherlock did things he wanted to all of the time, just because he felt the whim. John heaves in a breath of his own and it serves to straighten his spine and he stands with his hands at his side as though at attention. 

Comfortable. (Petrified.)

“You kissed me,” Sherlock claims, all warm and pink and breathless, a bit out of sorts; he tugs at his cuffs and wipes his palms against the thighs of his trousers. It’s quite a sight. “Why?”

His mind is white noise, body still playing catch up, logic tipping slightly back onto it’s axis and it takes a few beats for John’s lips to form words. He would swear that he’s shaking like a leaf if his hands weren’t so utterly still. “Yes,” John replies, the words meandering their way up his vocal cords and out, whiskey-rough and too fast. “Because I think I... quite fancy you, you mad, _mad_ , infuriating dick.” And so there it is, just like that. There is no subterfuge, there is no mad, mental build up. There is no choking of the words in his throat, no stuttering, just the blatant, honest fact.

“John,” there’s a bit of a smile nudging the left side of Sherlock’s mouth; it’s sweet and it’s sad and if it curls any further John might think it patronizing. “You’re not-”

He rolls his eyes, hearing himself say the same thing countless times when an insinuation has been made regarding his sexuality. “Oh god, sod that, alright. Can we not, with that? Please?” John glances back at a cottage behind the garden and sets his mouth into a hard line. He won’t have Sherlock questioning this or if it’s what John really wants. He won’t have that. 

This is hard enough (scary enough) as it is.

When John glances back Sherlock is wearing a small smile (is it bashful? is it self-deprecating?) and is worrying the thumb of his left hand against forefinger. “There are things that matter, and this is one of them,” John says as though that explains away _everything_. It’s as eloquently as he knows how to put it. 

“Mmm, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” and Sherlock’s eyes are slits, assessing John carefully. “But you mean that.”

John sucks a quick breath in through his nose. “I do.”

“Why?”

And for Sherlock Holmes, this means he truly doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why the masses would want to view him as human and he doesn’t understand why John would want him and why - in turn - that would be important.

John puts it as simply as he knows how. “Because I’d walk through fire for you.”

“Hyperbole,” Sherlock scoffs.

And John returns with a calm, serious word, “No.”

Sherlock stands quite still and doesn’t break the gaze he has with John but he does shove his hands into his pockets and shuffle his feet. It nearly breaks John’s heart when he asks, quietly, so quiet it’s almost lost against the shifting of the tree branches in the wind. “But... why?”

And there are many reasons. The cut of Sherlock’s jaw, the way his voice drops dramatically when he speaks about evidence, how he holds his violin and the way he _always_ accepts a piece of toast when John offers it. The way he assures that John is home to sleep just before he is sure to collapse and though he never buys the milk he always deduces the fact it’s about to run out. And it’s the way that John’s heart positively thrums when they run together and that Sherlock shares the battlefield with him.

It’s in that they make the other live. A circuitous relationship, really. 

And that he’s gorgeous and liberating and infuriating and living in brash, bright, endless color. 

But all John says is, “That’s how it happens sometimes, Sherlock.” 

Even that isn’t enough to lift the inquisitive sadness from the other man’s gaze and John’s shoulders slump in surrender. “God, you know, you’re an arrogant, selfish git but I’m, you know,” John says nearly bashful. “I’m just falling in love with you. You understand that, yeah?”

A beat, “Yes?” John asks. Does he understand? John’s mind plays catch up; the man doesn’t understand sentiment and then how could he understand love? He freezes, wondering if he’s tread into completely unforged territory and nearly regrets his leap. 

He regrets until Sherlock takes a hugely deep breath (his breath fills and puffs with it) and he pulls his hands from deep within his pockets, flexes his fingers. “What do I-”

John releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and allows the tension to drain from his body, cuts the other man off, “Nothing, you don’t do anything.”

Sherlock frowns.

“You let me... kiss you again,” John says quickly before losing the nerve.

The breeze slides between the two of them; it’s crisp and quiet out and Sherlock tilts his head back, glances at the sky. “This is a terrible idea.”

“No,” John says, “It isn’t.”

Sherlock’s voice is sharp and to the point; his eyes turn dark and ominous and dangerous and a thrill runs through John. “You can’t know that!”

“I can’t, but at the moment it feels quite... right.” John sets his lips in a serious line. “And neither of us can predict what will happen between the two of us, that’s true. But...” John is taking what could be considered the biggest risk of his life. He’s soliloquizing and he wouldn’t normally take the time to spell all of this out, it’s too perfunctory. But Sherlock is _asking_ , he needs to know, desperately.

John continues, “I don’t actually foresee not needing any of this.” Not wanting, needing. And John can’t help the desperate tone his voice takes because _doesn’t Sherlock see_ that this is absolutely it for him? Can’t he see that John is laying it all down, all of it?

Sherlock mutters, “Double negative,” and shoves his hands back into his pockets so hard that John is sure he’s split the stitching. 

There’s the clenching of a jaw and John looking away towards a cobbled building, attempting not to laugh, or curse, or simply fall apart. “Sherlock, I can’t... I can be the brave one here but...” In his head, they never talked about this, it just happened. But the human condition extends to even Sherlock Holmes (and he _is_ human - John had felt the hardness at his thigh, entirely human) and he has to open his mouth and question it. If all had been poetic and perfect they would have kissed and kissed and somehow wound up in the bedroom and that would have worked itself out.

But this is reality and it’s spectacularly messy and incredibly awkward. 

John ducks his head to try and meet a down-turned gaze. “This is... something that you...” Caution to the wind, the brave one. “Want.” It’s a terrific fight to keep the question out of that.

Sherlock seems to somehow grow a foot and a half as he stands _indignantly_. “Clearly.”

John laughs and tosses up his hands. He sighs and grips Sherlock at the elbows, still feels astounded, perturbed, slightly intimidated and off kilter. But he’s also alive, on _fire_ and it feels so brilliant. “This is... this is... something that I would consider very important to me, Sherlock. I feel... very... strongly about this. About,” John heaves a sigh. “You.”

Sherlock blinks, takes a step and turns his back to John who doesn’t move, doesn’t _breathe_. The wind kicks up and screams in John’s ears; it feels like falling and drowning and collapsing, he’s burning, flaking, eroding away, standing there waiting for Sherlock to say _anything_. 

When Sherlock turns around he gives a small jerk of his head, towards the church down the road. “Alright,” he shouts over the bluster. “Walk with me, John.”

The smile that wavers on his lips is a bit hesitant but it becomes a grin when Sherlock rolls his eyes and shoves out his hand, palm up, open for the taking. 

John floats away, like smoke on the wind.

**Author's Note:**

> Robyn, you're cool.


End file.
